


o god, you've done enough

by debeauharnais



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Smoking, mild sexual themes, pls just let thomas be happy, set somewhere between jimmy leaving and thomas' attempted conversion therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debeauharnais/pseuds/debeauharnais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Duke of Crowborough? My, now there’s a name from another time. It must have been…”</p><p>“Twelve years,” Thomas breathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	o god, you've done enough

**Author's Note:**

> first off, please excuse my horribly flowery writing omg i haven't written properly in a good two years and i'm still trying to get back into the swing of it. secondly, this is rly dumb and just me trying to give thomas a bit of happiness anyway i can whilst also doing a bit of a character study i guess idk. un-beta'd so all mistakes are my own. xxx

_“O God, You’ve done enough, You’ve robbed me of enough,_

_I’m too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone forever.”_

-          Grahame Greene

 

 _"As a child you would wait and watch from far away._  
_But you always knew that you'd be the one that works while they all play._  
_In youth, you'd lay awake at night and scheme of all the things that you would change, but it was just a dream."_

\-           Imagine Dragons

He remembered a time. A time when the grey weightlessness of early morning would stir within him the spark of youthful ambition; when the promise of a new day, of carte blanche hours spun in fine dust by the rising sun, would provoke a hunger for life. A hunger that was tainted almost fondly by a deeply engrained bitterness and a resentment for all others that had not yet settled deep within his bones – a resentment that was, in those years, not so empty; that was fiery and practiced and demonstrated with an eagerness like one who was finally on stage after a lifetime of rehearsals.

Oh, yes, he was a fool in those days – brazen and boyish in his zeal for spectacles of malice. Now he was tired. Weary with an exhaustion that prowled in his veins and slowed his heart. An exhaustion that ached. It had been there for a while now; he had felt his blood cool and his mind splinter when Jimmy had left in his exile. The loneliness had greeted him as he turned away – _hello, old friend._ The prince of ice who had one been the prince of fire, aflame in his hatred and in the inferno of his desire for everything, _everything_ , was no more. The Thomas who returned to the servant’s hall that day was more spectre than man, too tired for a fury that was any more than show and with a heart whose burning effigy to love had been reduced to a heap of ashen embers.

He lashed out in his grief – and it was grief, unlike any other he had felt in all his unhappy years. The loneliness that had abated beside Jimmy – for though he could not touch him, he was _there_ ; the despair that had been held at bay; the anger with the world; the frustration and insecurities and the _yearnings_ ; they all came rushing back, burned him alive so that all was left were the numb, charred remains of a man with memories of having been loved.

How he burned.

The tea tasted bitter on his tongue and he forced himself to swallow, feeling the bile rise in his throat. His eyes felt heavy and swollen; he remembered to blink as they began to sear. Anna and Mr Bates smiled at each other across the dining table and Thomas lowered his gaze as though guilty, drawing into his self-enforced isolation once more. What it must be to be normal. To feel a love that is uncondemned; to be able to take a lover’s hand before God and say _I love him_ and not be met with accusations of sin and immorality and the promise of gaol bars. Clenching his jaw against the constrictions that began to curl around his throat, he drew the near-forgotten cigarette to his lips with pale fingers and drew in a shallow, shuddering breath, praying the smoke would warm him from the inside and give him some relief.

At the head of the table, Mr Carson suddenly cleared his throat and set down his napkin, looking for all the world a man bound for the gallows. The others set down their teacups to eye him cautiously. “Though I very much regret to say it,” he began solemnly. “The Duke of Crowborough has, for whatever reason, accepted His Lordship’s – reluctant, might I add – invitation to the family’s Easter celebrations this Sunday. Why, I’ll never know. And as if His Grace weren’t already enough of a burr in all our sides, he will be arriving on Thursday. He won’t be the only one, thank Heavens – the Viscountess Crambeck is bound for Downton on the midday train tomorrow; I trust she’ll be bringing her own maid but if not, Madge, you will step in.”

When he paused for breath, Mrs Hughes interrupted, a wary smile in her voice. “The Duke of Crowborough? My, now there’s a name from another time. It must have been…”

“Twelve years,” Thomas breathed, a barely discernible wince on his lips when his dwindling cigarette scorched his fingers. He dropped it in the ashtray to smoulder into ash, withdrawing his hands to rest in his lap. His lungs felt compressed, deprived of breath; his stomach twisted in as brilliant a display of life as he had been able to conjure as of late. He stared dejectedly into the tabletop, swallowing thickly. He was not as horrified at the announcement of the Duke’s imminent arrival as one would have thought; not as spiteful or hurt or apprehensive. In the years following that night in 1912, Thomas had often entertained himself with thoughts of once more encountering Philip; revenge fantasies, as they were. Antipathy and forced indifference to mask the wound that had festered so painfully – the wound to his pride, he had told himself, for the Duke had never meant enough to him to pain his heart. It had just been business. The business of _a greedy footman_ , had been Philip's words. Then the war had come; then Jimmy. And the Duke had fallen from his conscious mind as all such trivialities had.

But now he did not find himself occupied with revived thoughts of vengeance and bad feeling. No – he longed for comfort. Pitiful, perhaps, to yearn for comfort wherever it may present itself, whether in the arms of a stranger or a once-lover whose tokens of affections had gone up in flames. But he was, he concluded ruefully, rather pitiful at the moment. And beggars could not be choosers.

“Twelve years, indeed,” Mr Carson continued, distaste evident on his face. “And we have all been the better off for it. Mr Molesley, you will—“

“I’ll do it, Mr Carson.” Thomas found himself speaking before he had quite finished processing his own thoughts. Desperate.

All eyes turned to Thomas, disbelieving. Suspecting a trick. Thomas forced his features to relax, hooding his eyes and bringing his right hand to rest nonchalantly on the table. It was nice, he told himself, the responses he could provoke out of people; fear, apprehension, suspicion. That was a sort of power, really. But lately their eyes had looked upon him with pity.

Mr Carson quirked his eyebrows. “You, Mr Barrow? Are you suggesting you act as the Duke of Crowborough’s _valet?_ Have you forgotten you are an under-butler?”

“Yes, Mr Barrow,” Mrs Hughes added with no small amount of amusement. “You have certainly spared no expense in reminding us of _that_.”

Thomas offered a tight smile. “I like to help where I can, Mrs Hughes. Poor Mr Molesley would be run off his feet trying to keep up with all these extra duties.”

Mr Molesley opened his mouth to respond, frowning in indignation, but Mr Carson was quicker. “I hope you’ll remember, Mr Barrow, that those duties will also be yours – you will still be expected to help serve at dinner.”

With a meaningful glance at Mr Molesley, Thomas leaned in a little closer to Mr Carson; the latter looked extraordinarily uncomfortable. Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he answered, “And I hope you haven’t forgotten, Mr Carson, that we’re trying to maintain this family’s good name. We wouldn’t want an unsatisfied Duke goin’ about spreading gossip, would we?”

“Certainly not,” Mr Carson grumbled, drawing back in his chair; Thomas mirrored his movement, feeling rather too ill to congratulate himself. The old butler cleared his throat, well versed in the art of avoiding conflict wherever he may. “Very well, Mr Barrow, you may attend to the Duke if you so desire.” Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Mr Molesley hunch his shoulders, apparently hurt. “But don’t make him _too c_ omfortable – we don’t want His Grace staying any longer than strictly necessary.”

Thomas didn’t dare ponder those words too carefully – wasn’t sure if he cared all that much, actually. Let Carson believe what he may; let them all.

»»»

 

Thomas slept fitfully in the nights leading up to the Duke’s arrival, tossing and turning on aching limbs. His dreams were restless and his thoughts dark and churning – thinking, thinking, thinking. The early hours of Thursday morning were icy, his body ensconced in cold air and blankets that scratched at his milky skin. He eyed the red tip of his cigarette, remembering, oh, remembering sweltering summer nights and letters disappearing in fire, remembering sweat-slicked skin and beauty spots at the base of Philip’s spine, remembering hungry kisses that branded his lips, rubbed the skin raw. Pale dawn light filtered into his bedroom and he drew in a deep lungful of smoke when he realised he couldn’t quite picture the precise blue of Jimmy’s eyes as a distraction.

After Mr Carson’s announcement at breakfast two days prior – and only after the butler had left the table – one of the housemaids had piped up: “who’s this Duke of Crowborough when he’s at home?” she had asked and Thomas had let out a sound more breath than chuckle.

“Not a very nice man,” Anna had replied, with just enough kindness to almost conceal the fact she was drawing this particular line of discussion to a close. Dangerous territory and all that.

“Passed over our Lady Mary, he did,” Thomas added, and he had wrinkled his nose a little at the cold tea that had met his lips. “And Mr Carson never forgives a slight against her.”

Anna’s smile had been almost fond. “That’s enough of that now, Mr Barrow. We’ve all plenty of work to do before His Grace’s arrival.” 

Now tendrils of smoke whispered about his ears and his unkempt hair, making his eyes water. Stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray in his lap, Thomas sat up a little more, the headboard digging into his back. He pressed a little more against it (any distraction), anticipation of the day ahead knotting his empty stomach – was it coupled with dread, longing? Only God knew. In these past ten years he had grown, changed by experience and no small amount of heartbreak. He was not the same youth Philip had known. He had spent so very long resenting the Duke; then even longer denying ever having had any feelings for him at all – denying his existence. Eventually, with the passing of many months and many years, the thought of him had ceased to provoke any real emotion at all. Forgive, forget. But had Philip changed? Did he hold a grudge against the ink-haired boy who no longer existed? The papers had been filled with tales of the Duke a few years ago, the scandal of his divorce. Had that changed him? Thomas ran cold fingers through his hair. Thinking, thinking. Always thinking. _You live too much in that head of yours_ , a nameless lover in York had once told him; _one day you’ll forget to breathe._

The room was still cold when he finally found the strength to kick off the blankets and perch on the edge of his bed, the balls of his feet tingling at the contact with the chilled floor and sending goose-bumps up his body – cold breath, cold lungs, searing heart. His legs were leaden as he washed his face and shaved and touched cologne to his skin; his chest aching as he combed his hair and tamed it with pomade. He dressed slowly, afraid to disturb his own thoughts, afraid of the memories his mind could still conjure if he didn’t tread lightly. And as that notion crept into his head, he could have sworn he could hear himself longing for those days twelve years ago, when his anger shielded him, when his greatest concerns were whether he could get away with stealing a bottle of wine or tripping Mr Bates, when he saw the world in a shade of hot crimson rather than the blues and greys of today. He had awoken secure in the belief he held the Duke’s devotion, languid and haughty with the power – at least in his own eyes – that such a position afforded him.  _No, none of it's ours._ But for a moment - for a Season - it had been. The housemaids had swooned over the attentions of any passing creature in trousers whilst he had fucked a Duke underneath an Earl's very nose. So, ah, perhaps it was any remnant of those days he so craved rather than Philip himself.

But those ponderings were far too philosophical for Thomas at the moment. So, stilling his face into the very picture of grace and indifference, he stepped into the hallway and headed down for breakfast.

»»»

 

At 11 o’clock precisely, the gravel of the drive crunched under the approaching Buick, the acrid stench of oil and fumes writhing through the still morning air. The household – in a near-perfect re-enactment of the same scene a decade earlier – was turned out to welcome the Duke; now, Thomas stood closer to Carson and the family, in accordance with his lofty rank; now, Lady Sybil was nowhere to be seen. The differences ended there.

Somewhere over his head, a bird sang and was answered from the branches of a nearby tree. Thomas’ heartbeat was erratic, frantic; his cheeks burned inexplicably and he prayed the others would explain it away as a flush from the cold. He resisted the growing urge to fidget. Perhaps the Duke wouldn’t remember him. His heart sank at the prospect and he cursed his own bloody self. Guiltily, he forced Jimmy from his mind – better to think now of what may actually be within his grasp and dwell later on what wasn’t.

He almost missed the moment the Duke stepped out of the car to greet His Lordship, as though no ill feeling had ever existed between them. He was certainly adept at fantasy. Clenching his jaw and feeling his own pulse pounding in his temples, Thomas watched from the corner of his eye. Philip looked very nearly the same – a little older, his face perhaps a little more gaunt. But still Philip. He beamed at Cora, took her hand in his and drew it to his wicked lips; Mary he met with no hint of remorse, Edith with charm, of course, but no real interest. Thomas’ teeth began to twinge where he ground them. Oh, yes, Philip to the core.

“A ghastly few years your family’s been through,” Philip began once the initial greetings were concluded, smile warm but eyes feigning a trace of sympathy. “Here’s hoping this Easter will lift all our spirits.”

His Lordship was apparently uncertain of how best to proceed with the Duke, suspicious but, to a fault, easily convinced by kind words and a well-tailored suit. “Indeed,” he finally managed.

Cora swooped in, smiling. “But you must be exhausted, Duke – we’ll have tea at 12 o’clock but please do use this time to recuperate if you need.”

“Nonsense. In fact, I’m rather eager to catch up.”

“There’ll be quite a lot of that to do, I’m afraid,” Mary joined, striking in her red dress against the watery spring sky. “A lot has changed these past ten years.”

The Duke grinned. “Oh, don’t remind me – you’ll make me feel quite old.”

Thomas felt his muscles tense once more as His Lordship glanced towards the servants, the under-butler having relaxed a little as he simply watched, taking in Philip’s voice, his mouth, his seemingly effortless allure. He finally remembered why he had been so enraptured with the Duke. Perhaps it would not be so terrible a thing to make the same mistake twice – fool that he was, in love with anyone half willing to look at him twice. “You remember Mr Barrow? Carson tells me he’s rather selflessly volunteered to valet you.”

He cursed his Lordship with every vile word he knew.

“Of course.” If the Duke felt any trepidation it wasn’t evident in the easy smile he offered Thomas; the servant stared straight ahead, certain his teeth would shatter any second under the force he was inflicting upon them. “This house has all manner of memories in store for me, it seems.”

»»»

 

He didn’t see Philip again until the dressing gong was struck. Thomas had sorted through all of the Duke’s clothes – hung them, folded them, run downstairs to iron one particularly dishevelled shirt. He had been out of sorts all day, jumpy and snapping at his own shadow. The hall boys had quickly learned to duck out of sight when the crazed under-butler rounded the corner, much to Thomas’ humiliation. But now that he stood there, waiting to dress the Duke of Crowborough, he was calm. Come what may.

Finally, the door opened, flooding the room with light, only to be cast back into warm shadows when Philip clicked it shut behind him. His gaze rested upon Thomas for a moment (Thomas felt quite sick all of a sudden, not daring to move), thoughts indiscernible, before resolutely marching forward and standing with his back to the servant, slipping off his suit jacket. Thomas set it aside with trembling fingers, telling himself to breathe – _in, out; in, out._ A hot, heavy silence blanketed the room, disturbed only by the fire crackling absently on the other side of the room. He wondered vaguely if the Duke had planned to burst in, all self-assurance and wit, and if his confidence had perhaps wavered upon seeing Thomas. That was a nice thought. He placed the Duke’s waistcoat beside the jacket, suddenly overly conscious of the other man’s familiar scent (nutmeg, cinnamon, spice – Thomas never could quite tell).

When there was no more to possibly be done without facing the Duke, Thomas gathered up his courage and moved to start on his tie, keeping his head bowed and gaze focused on the task at hand. He could feel Philip’s eyes boring into him and the skin under his collar grew hot in response.

“Why won’t you look at me, Thomas?” He almost started when Philip spoke, voice soft and breath fanning over his ear. Still, he avoided his searching gaze. Thomas added the tie to the growing pile of discarded clothing and, after a moment’s hesitation, began on the top button of Philip’s shirt. The Duke’s fingertips on his wrist, gentle but insistent, stilled him. “You’re really being quite childish.”

Thomas’ eyes briefly flicked up to meet his before darting down once more. _Look up,_ he told himself. _Stare the bastard down._ But no matter how hard he willed his body to obey, it remained insolent. His bravado had slipped and he wasn’t quite sure how to replace it, how to regain his composure. This – standing frozen in place before the Duke – was a far cry from the comfort he had envisioned.

“Come now, Thomas. Where is that fire in your belly? Where is that disdain for all mankind and that beastly arrogance I found so impossible to resist? Don’t tell me it’s gone, I should be quite heartbroken.” 

Thomas drew in a shallow breath, fingers still toying with the shirt button. _Face him. Say something. Anything._ “No,” he replied after a lengthy pause. “Not quite.”

He heard the smile in Philip’s voice. “Just hibernating?”

Silence.

“Alright.” Philip unhooked Thomas’ fingers from his shirt, studying him. The Duke looked at rather a disadvantage, forced to stand in an open space with nothing to recline against as was his wont. “So you won’t speak. I will. Thomas, I shan’t pretend my purpose in coming here was to see you – I wasn’t certain if you were even still here. I felt sure you would have blackmailed your way into a seat in Parliament by now.” Thomas refused to flinch. “But neither will I pretend it isn’t such a relief to see you again. If only to apologise.”

At this, Thomas raised his eyes, entirely expecting to see a smug smile on the Duke’s lips. But his eyes were earnest. Seeing now that he had a captivated audience, Philip continued. The man should have gone into acting. “I was an abominable man when you knew me – terribly prideful. I grew bored with the day before lunchtime. So surely you can understand how highly I must have thought of myself for carrying on our little romance as long as I did. I found it all quite a lark, this playing at marriage, as it were. Your being in love with me made it all the more amusing – don’t deny it, Thomas, it’s quite deep in the past.” He hesitated for the briefest of moments, frowning, before going on. “I don’t wish to atone for my actions, Thomas. But I do want you to know how very sorry I am. It took me many years and a great abundance of hard times to realise it, but there it is. I hurt you in my games. And believe me, Thomas, I’m under no illusions – I expect you have long since moved past all that sorry business. Tell me, have you found a kinder man than me to love?”

Thomas wasn’t sure he could force any words past the tightness in his throat. Kinder? Was Jimmy kind? He had seemed to alternate between the devil’s own wrath – and, truly, a childish penchant for cruelty for no reason other than to satisfy curiosity – and angelic mercy. He had been the sweetest of bitter tastes and the nastiest of compassionate souls. But, oh, how he loved him. He was the prettiest hell Thomas had ever been in and he hadn’t minded burning at all. Still didn’t. With the hint of a sneer that seemed to speak more of sorrow than ire, Thomas nodded. “I did.” He exhaled a breathy, self-deprecating chuckle. “I do. But happiness never lasts long for our sort.”

“It can.”

Thomas looked up at the softness of Philip’s voice, searching. “So you’ve found someone, then?”

“In ten years?” The Duke flashed a fleeting grin. “Ah, I’ve found many. But every so often I would catch myself thinking, ‘Thomas’ kisses were sweeter’ or ‘Thomas’ eyes were far prettier’ – often at the most inopportune of moments. You ruined many a night for me, Barrow.” Smiling invitingly, he padded over to the whiskey bottle and set aside two glasses. “Would you…” He indicated the bottle.

Thomas nodded absently, sniffing. So he had truly charmed the Duke enough to keep him preoccupied for a decade. A little part of his ego purred as he took the proffered glass, fingers brushing Philip’s. The rest of his rational mind told him, no, this is a trick, meaningless flirtations, he’s playing you for all you’re worth and you’re falling for it. But he had listened to reason for far too long. Reason never afforded him any comfort. Eyeing him over the rim of the glass, Thomas asked, “Did you ever love me?”

Philip smiled, eyes never leaving Thomas as he raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. “Only a blind man couldn’t.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Thomas dropped his gaze and downed the rest of the whiskey, throat burning, scratching. Despite his best efforts, cloudy blue eyes and scarred skin writhed about the mist of his mind’s eye. Slit wrists. Blood. Frustrated, Thomas bit down on the inside of his cheek and stalked to the bottle, pouring another glass and downing it just as quickly as he had the first. Ghosts would not interfere now. He could feel Philip’s eyes on his back and it made his skin prickle. Then, in a few paces from the bed to the liquor tray, it was Philip’s hand on his. Thomas’ breath hitched at the proximity, eyes flickering shut for the briefest of moments.

Philip’s deft fingers lightly traced Thomas’ glove. “War wound?”

Thomas nodded.

The Duke continued to caress the skin on his hand, his fingers, his wrist, sketching circles on the flesh. His voice when he finally spoke was quiet, intimate. “You ask if I loved you. I did. It took me a rotten amount of time to realise it but, well…” Thomas’ pulse was fluttering, breaths coming ever shallower. “I perhaps wasn’t quite as heartless as I thought myself. All that time, I had believed you to be my puppet. Looking back, I think it was I. There was no reason for me to write to you, no cause whatsoever to continue a silly little fling with a servant. But I did.” Philip stilled the ministrations of his hand, looked over to Thomas with a gaze that flicked between his eyes and his lips. His voice dropped to a murmur, virtually breathless with desire. “More fool I.”

Oh, Thomas thought. There’s plenty of foolishness to go around tonight. Philip’s hand under his ear, thumb softly brushing his cheek, drew Thomas’ lips forward to meet his; Thomas’ eyes quivered shut at the light contact. Philip’s lips were soft and warm and Thomas found himself in another time half a lifetime ago, the sweat of midsummer on his skin. It had been long – so _long_. His fingers moved to rest at the nape of Philip’s neck, shivering as the Duke’s palm came to lie on his waist. The kiss deepened, slowed; Philip’s lips parted and Thomas was more than happy to oblige him, revelling in the torturous heat and taste of Philip’s mouth as they nipped and lapped at each other’s lips with teeth and hungry tongues. Thomas swallowed Philip’s husky moan greedily, wonderfully aware of the other man’s growing arousal pressed against his thigh. He would have this Duke on his knees before the night was through; God, how he would beg. They would set the world alight.  

It was second best, a poor substitute for the blond boy who had left and taken Thomas’ heart with him. But, he concluded as he grinned against Philip’s needy lips and felt the blood in his veins grow warmer than it had been in so very long, it would do for now. Perhaps there would be a time when he was not so broken. Perhaps this was the beginning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, sweetheart!! (even tho it was terrible rip)
> 
> "she was the prettiest hell i have ever been in; i didn't mind burning at all" - matt baker


End file.
